


Good Porn and Terrible Puns

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Porn, Multi, porn what porn/plot without porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:47:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7013494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying to navigate a media convention blind-drunk nets Grantaire a headache, a crush on a crusading prettyboy, and the acquaintance of a group of friends enthusiastic about good porn and terrible puns. (A crack-ish cliche/trope-laden porn!AU, without porn. What.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Porn and Terrible Puns

**Author's Note:**

> Rating/Warnings: Probably less sex than one might expect (only ever referenced and indirectly described, never explicit), certainly more bad play on words (Hugo's fault, he started it) and obvious and not-so obvious canon references.  
> I know nothing about porn, nor sex, nor have any personal interest in either, nor am I a native English speaker. Exhibit A for the weird and/or corrupting powers of the Internets.
> 
> For a prompt on the Les Mis kinkmeme.

Grantaire is really not okay with this. His life may be catastrophic, but at least it's a controlled catastrophe where he sees every turn coming a mile off. And he has no idea how he even got into this mess. Which is technically wrong, since he mostly does remember the steps of _how_ it came about, but he can't for the life of him understand _why_. It started, as things around him always did these days, while being horribly smashed.

So maybe going to the trade-fair - _slash_ \- convention pre-drunk and then drinking even more was a stupid idea, as were many of his, but he had experience so he managed without braining himself on every other booth or his other marketable parts on any table. And though his autopilot was usually dependable in that way today it had manoeuvred him out of the more shady corner occupied by the porn business — _Oh my, Thénardier was gonna get pissy when they found him missing but he's not under contract he can do whatever he likes_ — out into and across the thoroughly respectable main hall into what he could only recognize as the corner apparently occupied by the more indie film studios and publishing. Which was worse by virtue of going into the complete opposite direction of merely respectable. Any second now he would be accosted by a vegan hipster pacifist about clean water in the third world or orphaned elephant babies and it was all his own fault. Though if he threw up on one of them, he firmly decided, no blame could fall on him; he was a tremendous drinker but even he was only human.

Which was probably why his brain latched onto the best thing available under the circumstances: people talking about sex. Passing by a larger pavilion — under a banner proclaiming _Valeen & Fauchchllele_…— well, _something_ — filled with stacks of books and video screens and an enthusiastic but orderly queue to a pretty blonde woman with a gleaming pearly smile signing books, he found himself by the other end of the stand at the edge of a not-so-orderly crowd of people in what appeared to be a free meeting area. There were people getting photos and autographs — quite a bit of an unexpected fangirly atmosphere — as well as animated discussion.

Among the latter group he found a truly magnificent view of a denim-clad ass, a rather girlish golden mane, the line of a wonderfully sloping back, muscle and bone moving with gesticulating hands in a way that almost made him wish for his long-neglected sketchpad. Realizing he was standing in the middle of the aisle staring at this Adonis, he moved over to the side of the pavilion to a display of book flyers — _"Four and Four"_ — only slightly stumbling into them. As he congratulated himself on his high functionality under the influence and wondered why he had suddenly developed into such a creep he edged around it and — _Oh god he was wearing a henley, chest, do those buttons up or do you want to kill someone, throat, eyes up, eyes up, oh god even worse_ —

—that _face_. Some youthful Greek god descended from the heavens, and not some bimbo Adonis — which would have been manageable, really — but more a severe Apollo, face intent and eyes alight in debate. Which was apparently very serious stuff but he was focusing a bit too much on his mouth for him to consciously register what was coming out of it and his opposite's. An impenetrable wall of words about the kyriarchy and oppression by denying sexual agency of women and minorities, mainstream media and porn being both framed in harmful ways and as the only acceptable form of desire, and how current society both enforced and denied sex leading to mental and social dissonances, which had to be changed to more healthy and inclusive ways, how open education and sex positive—

…and now Grantaire can't stop staring _or_ thinking about sex, and before he can stop himself, because right now he's really _really_ drunk both on booze and infatuation — he turns to him and bursts out with "You can positively sex me up anytime."

Unfortunately, both of them do hear him and shut up abruptly. Apollo is startled out of it with a frowny stare that one half of his brain would right now be teetering between on declaring cute or hot, if the other half wasn't so busy being mortified. Usually he has quite an amount of considerable self-censure — _yes, you don't even know half of what horribly biting things he would say all day long if he didn't stop himself half the time, and he only says stupid things if he wants to, dammit_ — and in some part because that was the lamest thing one could have said.

"Beg your pardon?" Apollo says, staring at him; he looks honestly stumped. His companion less so, appearing more — what do they say, disappointed but not surprised? — quicker with the program and ready to tell him off, obviously more used to the script. Apollo puts on a vaguely squinty look _that makes him look adorable geez_ , then asks, "Are you drunk?"

Because defensiveness and riling people up has always worked really well for digging his own grave further he says, "You really believing in what you're spouting there? What does half of that even mean or actually do?"

If disapproval was currency he'd be set until the end of the year, just from these two. Apollo looks like he might gear up into something and Grantaire can't tell if he's unlucky or not to have caused that one, because he's even more scorching now and he doesn't know if he'd mind the burn for the front seat view—

Someone else grabs his attention away. " _Ey—_! Ms. Lamarque is here to discuss the trans youth outreach thingy." Apollo stops to scan the crowd, "Where's Lou wandered off to again?"

"Does anyone ever know? But I already gave a call, and they's on the way back here." — And he, they are gone.

Grantaire feels strangely robbed, but gets distracted by an almost-collision with a girl in a wheelchair who accosts a dark-eyed beauty behind him, with dimples and hips enough for two, and proceeds to gush at her. Grantaire can't tell if Wheels Girl is just fangirling really hard or hysterically crying but it's uncomfortably intense either way so he moves on. Or at least tries to because somehow he ends up being talked at by a brunette girl who's so damn nice he automatically answers and listens, or at least seems enough like it, and there's stuff about erotica, porn, instructional videos, scientific research, the publishing of academical books and popular novels, and all amidst a flock of terminology which would fly right over his head even if he were actually sober enough to follow; she ends up pressing a few pamphlets and a business card on him as well as an invitation to visit.

He sticks them into his jacket as he walks off and bins them on the way home; the card however has lodged itself in his pocket and his fingers are too uncooperative to get it out, so he leaves it and passes out in his bed.

* * *

Grantaire honestly has no idea why he followed the card to come here, but now he's walking around _Valjean & Faucthulhu_ and can't decide whether to go back out or stay and look. The walls are strewn with art and framed photographs: Employees at work at their desks, handling printers and cameras, out doing interviews and rallies and documentaries; there's even stuff from what has to be overseas: rainforests and deserts, strange animals getting bottle-fed, militias and remote mountain villages. But there's also more private photos of colleagues and friends hanging out. One group shot is subtitled _~Les Amis~_ and signed with names around the frame. He even recognises some of the people he vaguely remembers having seen at the con. And certain others he remembers not so vaguely.

"Looking for someone?"

 _Fuck_ , he startles. Then the nice brunette girl from the con is next to him, who turns out to be the lady from the business card — _"But call me Cosette, no one uses the other name."_ — and speaks a warm welcome.

"Doesn't look much like a porn studio," he offers to catch himself.

"Well it isn't. Don't you remember what I told you at the con?" — he wisely chooses not to incriminate himself — "We, that is a few of our departments are collaborating with a selection of producers who share our ideals to write, produce, and promote quality erotica; we also at times provide the facilities, tech and crew personnel." She gestures at the wall, "Usually we have our regular work with V&F and besides that we're active in several social and political projects; and some of us also have extra jobs elsewhere on their own. Although some occasional or full-time actors do have in turn come and taken up work here at V&F in various ways. Bit like my mother, she's been here for years and has just published her second book actually." She beams at the thought. "I'm also doing a lot of networking with creators and activists. I guessed you might have an interest in what we're working for in that field, you looked kinda into it."

She is either really bad at reading people or way too optimistic about them, Grantaire decides; either that or he has more of a blackout about that day than he remembers.

As it is, they do happen to be filming at the moment, and she asks if he wanted to see, assuring him that everyone on is cool with it. As she shows him around beforehand, she rambles on, going on a tangent about her papa's — one of the company's founders and her co-parent; her bio-dad is, apparently, a "grade-A dick", her words, "and not the quality store-bought kind either" — work in the political and social field, nature preservation and sustainability, then thankfully back to sex, which is less complicated, but maybe not since there's so much theory it makes his head spin. After they make it to the studio she quietly does introductions while things are set up. Some seem to recognize him from the con; he must have been more drunk than he had though. On another hand someone has to be a Classics nerd around here, since everyone seems to have at least a secondary Ancient Greek stage or nickname; which explains how his Apollo — in a twist that both surprises him and totally doesn't — is also _their_ Apollo. About whom he really has some questions out of personal curiosity, but.

— Who just now happens to walk by the door, carrying three heavy binders, two external drives and checking his phone, and does an impressive triple take without dropping anything. Then stares accusingly at Cosette in a way that probably wordlessly but eloquently conveys his honest confusion and consternation about how such an individual unbelieving of their lofty aspirations came to be here. Grantaire just tries to smile back in a way that could have been defiant or flirty, but since he can't decide it probably just makes him look weird. Thankfully Cosette shushes him off with a few indecipherable hand gestures before he does more than glare.

* * *

The scene shot is in a rainy street, which seems impractical but which he can appreciate for the soaked-through clothes of the actors. The girl's shoved up against the wall and her partner — Hermes — is going down on her, excess water dripping from his curls and going in rivulets through his white now see-through shirt. The guy on camera does long sensual pans but equally does pay attention to detail, captures the girl's little abrupt breaths catapulting the drops from her lips, her thighs flexing under his fingers and her bare toes curling into the ground in delight. Just as he's wondering if and why no one's gonna take their clothes off here Grantaire catches the guy's upturned worshipful face on the other monitor and his overeager brain helpfully superimposes Apollo's and the image makes him choke.

The rest is lost in trying to beat down his imagination until he is walking back out accompanied by Cosette who keeps twittering at him all the while. "…and the camera work is actually really important, not just from an aesthetic point of view, but from a narrative one and how we literally frame our desire. It's not just about subverting the traditional Gaze but is also what really makes the difference in texture and experience. Like a talented writer who can get you all riled up with just the way he frames his sentence, as opposed to some clinical flat prose, you know? Feuilly is really masterful in his craft, getting that sensuality on camera, I always say it's like he's painting on silk, you just want to roll in the pictures. Someone gave him the title of ‘fanmaker' since he's so vital in capturing the audience and making them followers. And would you believe he was entirely self-taught when he came here, with not a single official course in cinematography under his belt? He was a ventilation repairman before he jumped ships to media."

When she stops to take a breath he gets in: "You really have a problem with wordplay in this house, do you?"

"Well, yeah, kinda, but most of it is Courfeyrac's — that's Hermes' — and our trio's fault. Those kinda things usually are."

"Well, he does seem to like applying his mouth." Lame, sure, but Cosette snorts anyway. Boldened, he aims for nonchalance and asks, "So Apollo back there, does he act too?"

"Enjolras? No. Nah," she laughs at the thought. So much for his hopes. "He's down left side of the building with Combeferre and the politics stuff. Well _technically_ , since they butt in everywhere else whenever they have the chance; I think you might've already see him in action at the con? But he really knows his shit in a variety of fields and is very efficient not to mention driven, so we rarely try to tell him off. He has the rare gift of being able to be thoroughly aware and pissed off at whatever problems are at hand and at the same time not lose his conviction and endurance to fight. Weapons-grade idealism, that's what. But personally he's not that much into sex, guy's mostly asexual."

 _Ouch._ "So what was all that talk of sex positivity if he never even does anything?" he snipes. Yeah, so he's bitter, what of it. What a waste.

Cosette raises an eyebrow at him. "Sex positive means 'yes you can, no you don't have to'."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he grumbles. Even if so far he hasn't seen that applied anywhere.

When he gets home he proceeds into an extended wanking session to erase the images of Enjo— _Apollo_ from his head, then ends up impulsively ordering a random bunch of V &F-endorsed productions to soothe his broken heart.

In the meantime he has an appointment with the Thénardiers which manages to go even worse than expected. He wishes he were more drunk, or even just a little bit drunk since he's rather horribly on the sober side. While he's there he's witness to no less than three instances of overt bullying from the bosses alone, discounting anything that goes on behind closed doors, which doesn't sound too appetising either. Then as he's leaving he almost gets into a fight with Cabuc when he puts himself as a buffer between him and an actress who just now stood her ground over some disagreement and quit. He thinks of Cosette's words as he accompanies her back to her apartment, her sobbing all the way but visibly relieved. Impulsively he gives the girl the card that's still in his jacket — Cosette did say she was setting up contacts after all; and with her mother, well, she probably knows more about where to go from here. The way back home he spends imagining Apollo beating up Cabuc with righteous fury; yep, he saves time with combo fantasising, sue him. By the time he's home he's also convinced himself not go back to those guys, ever. The imaginary Apollo who he can't seem to get rid off now nods approvingly, spattered with his enemies' blood.

* * *

When his order arrives he almost is too fed up with everything to actually have any desire left to watch. Especially not while still sober, or what passed for sober by his standards. But Cosette was so very eloquent and passionate about it that he is moved to give it a half-hearted try. He sets himself up with food and more booze for the evening, a book for when he inevitably loses interest and is still sober enough to read, even gets out his old sketchpad which he still used to doodle on when he was bored before he stopped entirely. He sets up his laptop and chooses a film at random by counting out without looking too closely.

While the cinematic quality is expected, the cynic in him immediately makes his stomach sink at the cliché cardboard cut-out couple on screen, big guy about to fuck a slight woman, and while normally he wouldn't've cared what's providing the background noise for him getting sloshed, just right now he can't stomach that kind of stupid bored porn mugging, so he's turning it off. He's halfway up when she starts making snorting noises. Grantaire starts frowning a second before she breaks out in giggles, and by the time she's full out laughing he's dropped his outstretched hand. They're going at it and she's just laughing all the time, not a mocking or a strained one, but bursting out a honest-to-god full-chested laughter at times that makes you wonder where all that sound is coming from, but she just keeps on giggling through and if he wasn't so flabbergasted he would probably be grinning along. Porn has no business being that happy or he would've died of diabetes already; but the appeal is still there.

In the next one he recognises the lady he stood next to at the con. She's dressed well and proceeds to tie up some guy with increasingly complicated knots, her tiny hands weaving about sure and strong. Along the way she strips down to some rather delightful frilly flower-print underwear as well as what at first glance seem to be the weirdest kinky boots he's ever seen in porn, especially when accessorised with that lingerie, until his brain catches up and he realizes they're prosthetics. _Oh._ Then she tenderly doms the fuck out of him, minus literal fucks happening mind you, until he lets go completely and cries very prettily; then in beautiful symmetry goes and puts him back together while taking the ropes apart. Grantaire is riveted and might well be on the way to develop a thing for her. His only regret is that he hasn't got the chance to see her naked, because that ass was truly shaped by the gods. He's later delighted to discover he got a lucky hand in picking and has some more of her, once with some bald dude who strips her down completely and never lets her stumps touch the ground in an impressive feat of strength, and another as a medkinky threesome with Bald Guy and a leggy doctor.

There's also another hello with the dark haired girl from the rain, getting it on with a person going by _Iphis_ , and when he remembers the name an hour later he can't but facepalm why he didn't get it earlier, followed by a slight wonder why he even remembered at all.

By the time he reaches the fivesome with Courfeyrac and a bunch of lovely ladies for the fourth time he realizes he's been having entirely to much fun, in his pants and his heart, for it to be normal. Same goes for his mostly still un-opened and shockingly un-empty booze, and his sketchpad, which is now getting rather full rather quickly after years of barely seeing any action. There's bits of anatomy and movement, quickly drawn scenes directly from the screen and new ones from his mind, the elaborate tattoo of that twink which he by now is pretty sure has an elephant in there, but he's so far only seen that one three times, although the way he brings the big guy down with just a few words is hilarious.

And lots of the kallipygian — how is his brain even remembering all that now, those Greek art courses were years ago — girl with the small hands and the dimples. He really really has to ask Cosette to get him in contact with her and beg her if she would model for him sometime; she can even bring her two favourite men, he doesn't care, he just really feels burning a need to draw her.

By the time of early morning Grantaire is left staring out at all the evidence looking him in the face. He wants to tell the recently acquired little Apollo-shaped angel on his shoulder that smugness is unattractive, but that would be a lie. Really, there's only one thing left to do.

* * *

"I mean, I still don't get half of what you guys even talk about, and to be honest I don't really know what you're doing with any of your things, since there isn't gonna be some magic revolution changing people's minds. …But damn this, I want in. Here am I. If you'll permit it." Cosette takes his offered hand and smiles. In the corner Ap— _Enjolras_ lowers his eyes to the screen on his lap which illuminates his smirk that is just a tiny bit triumphant. Grantaire doesn't think this one unattractive either.

* * *

In the following months he, completely to his surprise, finds himself becoming fast friends with the Amis, that weird little mottled group of friends made up of academics and artists, activists and adult actors, and people of intersecting identities thereof. Yes, he's been learning some fancy new words too. And is being brainwashed by Courfeyrac or Jehan, if that long string of alliteration was anything to go by, depending on whether you look at it as horrible or poetic wordplay; probably both. When they dub him _Dionysos_ , he can almost contain the eyeroll; he's better at it with the melancholy sigh threatening from thinking about the god's complimentary opposite.

Apart from the occasional acting job, he somehow comes to always hang around, so much that he's actually more of a regular now than Iphis— _Lou_ , who is still steadfast in their door-in door-out ways, constantly passing through. His Aphrodite, he finds out, is called Musichetta; they get along like a house on fire, along with her two boys with whom she is also involved off-camera: Joly —who's supporting himself through actual medical school— and Bossuet, though the latter's proper name is _Legle_ and apparently a veritable goldmine of puns for Courfeyrac. Though referring to the triad as _Legs, Legless and Legle_ in earshot of them usually goes over about as well as the _Angelina Joly_ one. So far nobody has been willing to tell him what exactly went down with the still-whispered-about _Great Oscars Debacle of 2012_ , but Courfeyrac is no longer allowed unsupervised access to photoshop _or_ anywhere near Feuilly's editing software.

For them, he reactivates his rusty graphics and designing skills; for himself, he stubbornly keeps on drawing. And while some innocent soul might be horrified by his alcohol intake, he's actually drinking way less than he used to. Valjean and Fauchelevent commission a big mural for their building which keeps him occupied for some time. High on finishing, he asks Musichetta to sit for him again, this time for a full-on actual painting, his modern Aphrodite Kallipygos in all her glory, _She of the Beautiful Buttocks and the Metal Legs_ ; she agrees easily. Because he's on a roll and clearly full of a newfound delusional semi-optimism he asks out Enjolras on a date. When _he_ too agrees, Grantaire is seriously pondering if the delusional or the optimism part is at work here, but he keeps on saying yes, so he pushes that thought off.

Until he is offered an option to take part in an actual exhibition, and he really doesn't know if he dares to compromise his lucky streak. His friends try to convince him to do it; otherwise _either_ Aphrodite would be sorely disappointed.

Neither of them is, and the divine one returns the favour a few months later when his boyfriend brings up the idea and offer of permanent cohabitation. This time he only needs the one in front of him as incentive to convince him to agree.

And he's very okay with that.


End file.
